I Know I'm Not Broken, A Little Cracked, But Still
by silverluna
Summary: Buzz McNab's thoughts following the climax of Season One's "9 Lives." Episode Tag with minor spoilers. One shot.


Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: Buzz McNab's (semi-introspective!) thoughts following the climax in Season One's _Nine Lives_. Episode Tag to _Nine Lives:_ (A few spoilers and a couple "missing" scenes).

Author's Note: One shot, short piece. Probably the lightest subject matter for fanfiction I've written to date and something which came to me nearly out of the blue (don't you love those?). I would be very appreciative of feedback, so pretty please, if you can spare a few moments for comment, it would be wonderful. Thank you in advance. :)

Characters: Buzz McNab. And "Little Boy Cat".

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**I Know I'm Not Broken, A Little Cracked, But Still I'm UnBroken**

A _Psych_ Story

by silverluna

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He wished he could say that it had made him think twice about calling strangers just to talk. If anyone had still been here . . . but they weren't. Even Shawn and Matt— no, it was Gus, right? Even they had left after stranding the docile, fluffy cat in his arms. Even if anyone _had_ stayed, they likely wouldn't have wanted him to talk, other than to give his statement. Buzz McNab felt that the leaving of his fellow officers and Shawn and Ma— Gus so soon after his near tragic murder had little to do with the fact he was only clad in a white t-shirt and red boxers. They hadn't seen the tears in his eyes . . . or had they? Had this made them want to vacate so soon? Well, they did have a killer to process. They weren't thinking about him, not really, now that the danger had passed.

And they had showed up to rescue him, guns drawn, Shawn with his mouth drawn, always drawn and ready for surefire.

Buzz placed the cat on floor, wondering if he should call Francie. No, not just yet. It would just worry her, and she had enough on her plate with last minute details before their wedding. He sighed, crossing his empty apartment to close the door.

Buzz went back towards the area where his would-be-killer— _whoa_, thinking of that was a little too much. Buzz pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, closing his eyes for a moment and listening to the silence in the room.

It was a blur, the smiling face of the man Buzz had opened the door to see, the story he'd fed Buzz to gain access to his apartment. Buzz hadn't questioned one thing about it— until there was a gun pointed at his face. Then all he could think of was how he was going to die on the floor and leave Francie a widow— even before they were married.

Buzz opened his eyes and gazed at the rope lying in a coil where the killer had dropped it. The man was just going to stand there, his gun cocked and aimed at Buzz until he complied and slipped the rope around his neck. He'd begged, before the cops arrived, for his life to be spared. Young and in love and loved back— just starting out. He'd begged, with his sweaty palms pressed together, the start of tears in his eyes. _Francie. Francie._ He could see her face, hear her laugh, feel the tight squeeze of her hug after he'd returned from a double shift— the light in her eyes just to see him walk through the door. Alive.

There had been a time while they were dating that he'd worried, seriously worried, what she was going to think when he told her he was a cop. And not just a cop, but a new cop, and that this was a profession of his choice. Buzz had even toyed with the idea of dropping everything for her, especially when he knew, at his core, that she was it.

She wasn't the type, though, who would have liked that.

Buzz stared at the rope, wondering suddenly if he should touch anything or if his apartment now qualified as a "crime scene". After a few more moments of hearing the silence, he decided it wasn't. If it was, someone who have stayed to collect evidence, take notes, ask him questions. Though he wasn't about to touch the rope.

It was a little surreal, thinking that he came so close to being victimized— no, killed. He made himself think the word, and then for more emphasis, "murdered".

_Till death do us part. . . ._

Buzz shook his head and headed for the kitchen, the cat he'd nearly forgotten about rubbing against his legs as he walked. When it first touched him, he almost jumped, and then remembered that this was his consolation prize for surviving— no, it was Shawn's wedding present to him. Buzz shrugged, going to the sink and filling up a glass of water. He downed a full glass in one gulp, then refilled, the glass to his lips before he heard the cat meow. He paused, mid-drink, to stare down at its furry form on the black and white checkered floor, its light green eyes staring back up. The cat meowed again.

Buzz set the water glass on the counter. He searched through the cabinets until he found a few small bowls. He filled one with tap water and set it on the ground at his feet, then lumbered to his fridge to share his milk.

_I'll have to get it food,_ he thought, closing the door. He watched the cat lap at the water, and set the bowl of milk next to it._ Francine can pick out a name. _

He left the cat in the kitchen, almost hopeful that someone was out in the front room that he had missed. But why should he want that? With his luck, it was likely to be the killer just waiting for him into another weak moment.

_You're okay,_ he told himself, patting down his arms as if to be sure. Yup, still here. Not bleeding or aching or— Buzz bit his lip. Still, it would be nice to find someone who would like to talk. Or if not talk, just listen. And, so what, so what if it had to be strangers again? He couldn't call his fiance, his friends and definitely not his colleagues— so, who did that leave?

His wet eyes burned, but that was all. He wasn't much in the mood for tears— crime done in one's personal space he was finding was more draining than crime done onto others. Well, at least, this was his experience so far.

He'd left the phone book opened on the kitchen table to the page of support hotlines, so it was easy enough to find another. Sitting down on one of the mismatched chairs, Buzz ran his finger down the listings, wondering which one would be best. They all looked the same; none of these had any special ads on the previous page of how well known their services were. Hmm. Maybe it was best to choose anonymity anyway.

Buzz stopped, leaning against the chair's uncomfortable back. Hadn't he already tried for that once? Calling a hotline, completely anonymous, only to have everyone find out that he'd called? He blew out a breath, realizing he didn't really care if everyone knew. After all, they'd just left. You think a thing like that would make them, even some of them, want to hang around. Or was it the opposite? Buzz thought of some of his routine patrols; had _he_, once, ever wanted to hang around when a victim had seemed distraught? Buzz fidgeted, recalling that there were times when he wanted to stay, but had to go, and times he wanted to go but needed to stay.

Before everyone had left, he recalled uttering out loud, "I just wanted someone to talk to," and had almost missed a flicker of annoyed regret in Detective Lassiter's eye. Buzz hadn't even expected this and hadn't been surprised when the look was gone just as quickly as if it had never been.

Could it really hurt to try the call again? It wasn't a psycho he'd called, only one— Hildenbach, that's what they called him— who'd listened into that particular hotline's incoming calls. And he didn't have to answer the door again, should anyone knock. Buzz shook his head, and reached for the phone. He closed his eyes, ran his finger down the page, and stopped. Tapping a number with his short finger nail, Buzz began to dial.

#########

"At the tone," the recording said, "the time will be 9:02 pm."

Buzz took a deep breath and started. "You see, my problem is. . ."

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**The End**


End file.
